


One of a Kind

by siennavie



Category: Flashpoint (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Omega Universe, But this is total gen, Does that appeal to anyone besides me?, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 11:03:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11966046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennavie/pseuds/siennavie
Summary: The team's in trouble, and Spike's left to face a subject alone.





	One of a Kind

Omegas are not highly regarded in the police force. It was just this last decade that the doors were opened to them, and the few bold enough to walk through barely made it past a desk. Spike was fortunate; all through training, he had good Alphas by his side. Lew and Mac had believed in him, mentored him, shielded him from the worst. They’d built his confidence by never once looking at him like he was less than equal.

He credits them with his successful application to the SRU. That and the fact that Sergeant Greg Parker is another Alpha who doesn't buy into the macho bullshit. His team reflects that value (although Spike had doubts at first about Ed Lane. The man was the textbook picture of Top Dog. Ed worked him hard and never let up that first week. It wasn’t until he got his first genuine smile and a sincere “Good job” from Ed that he realized he just needed to earn it). For as long as he’s been with Team One, he's never been made to feel different. And on the field, it just doesn’t come up, so focused are they on being a team, a unit. He thinks he contributes equally; he knows some outsiders disagree and perceive him as having all the handicaps and none of the advantages. 

But right now, as he looks down at his Alpha teammates sprawled across the concrete floor as sickly green dust-like motes float around them, the situation couldn't be more different. He stares at the layer of green coating his uniform, eyes widening with dismay and heart leaping into his throat. “Kira! Team One is down. I repeat, multiple officers down. We need hazmat. It’s—“

He doesn’t get to finish.

There’s a footstep, then a stranger’s deep voice saying, “Well, this is unexpected.”

Spike whips up his gun, levels it dead center at the man who had appeared from around a partition of the large, heavily retrofitted basement. “Police,” he yells. “Stop right there! Hands up. Show me your hands!”

The subject—a man in his 50s, maybe 60s, with scarred skin, graying hair with a beard to match—stops fifteen feet away and raises his hands in a slow, smooth movement. _Calm, controlled...dangerous_ , Spike thinks. This was not your average street corner drug dealer like they’d been informed. Anyone who would use _Alpaxin_ , a banned chemical warfare agent, fatal without rapid enough treatment, was in a special league. He keeps his distance as he orders the man to get down on the ground.

But the subject only tilts his head, regards him curiously and says, with an element of wonder in his voice: “You’re omega.”

It prickles at Spike, but he doesn’t let it show. _Hands steady now. Breathe in. Out._ It’s not easy though. Not when he can hear his teammates struggling for breath. “Sir, get down on the ground now,” he orders again. The man wants to talk, but there’s no time for that. How long has it been? Where was backup? His team needed to get to the hospital _now_ —

“Interesting, isn’t it?” the man continues, as if Spike hadn’t said a word. “Nasty for Alphas, but not for us.”

 _Us_. The man was omega, too. He’d set a trap, an almost perfect defense against police. _Almost_ , because he hadn’t counted on a team with an omega in its ranks. Spike weighs his options quickly. He can’t shoot an unarmed man as much as he wants to end this. What does this man _want_?

He takes a few steps forward, hoping his mic can pick up from this distance. “What’s your name, sir?” he asks.

The man gives him an appraising look. After a few seconds, he says in an affable tone of voice, “You can call me Mickey.”

There’s no doubt in Spike’s mind that that’s a fake name.

“Mickey, my name is Michelangelo Scarlatti. Can you tell what you’re doing here? Alpaxin”—he mentions it partly for Kira’s benefit—“that’s not something you get at just any street corner.”

Mickey dips his head as acknowledgment. “You know your stuff, Michelangelo. You’re smart, I can tell. Brave, too. How many other omegas are in your unit?” When Spike doesn’t answer, Mickey smiles, as if they were sharing a secret. “Just one, then. Just you. What are you doing with them, son?”

 _Son_. Trying to make a connection. Trying to act like a friend. Like someone harmless. This man was good.

“I’m here to keep the peace, Mickey. And I’d really like to resolve this situation without any more people getting hurt. My friends need help. Will you help me do that, Mickey?”

“Help them?” Mickey’s face contorts with disgust, his first show of real emotion. “Is that what you think you’re doing? By working for them and enforcing their agenda? You’re better than that, Michelangelo. You’ve got skills; skills rare for an omega.” His face is alight with excitement now, eyes burning into Spike’s own. “You’re different— _special_. You should be with us, working for a better future with your own kind.”

 _Oh shit_. He’d stumbled on some radical omega liberation group.

Mickey takes a sudden step forward, barely ten feet separating them now. Spike reactively tightens his grip on his gun. “Stop! Stay where you are.”

Mickey stops moving but isn't deterred from talking. “Join us, Michelangelo. We need more soldiers like you.”

“Not gonna happen,” he says, and however he says it, whatever shows on his face, makes Mickey draw back, expression darkening as he reconsiders the omega before him. 

"You'd pick them over one of your own? You would shoot me?" asks Mickey.

"I don't want to, Mickey. I want us all to walk away from this. I'd like to talk about your ideas with you. What we can both do to help. But not here. Not like this. So please, get down on the ground and surrender." 

Mickey smiles sadly. "As you said, that's not going to happen. What will happen though is this. You, son, are going to let me walk away.”

“I can’t do that," Spike says evenly.

“You can," Mickey insists. "You can and you will because if you do...I’ll tell you where the antidote is.” 

_That_ makes Spike pause, heart skipping a beat in his chest. 

“It’s here, right within your reach. You can save your friends.”

The temptation is real, even as he knows with a dreadful, sinking feeling in his gut that it’s a bargain he can’t make. There’s an _antidote_ here. There’s an antidote _here_. Of course, Mickey could be lying, but if he was telling the truth... Spike has no clue how readily available the antidote is. Would the hospital have it? This stuff was banned, he hadn’t heard of a case in years, and who knew if this was the exact same compound, if what worked then would work now. The basement is cluttered with various tables, lab equipment, chemicals, needles, tubes—there’s too much. He has no clue what to look for. He’d never find it alone.

Sensing his internal struggle, Mickey moves again, stepping slowly this time to the left toward a wooden door in the basement. _An escape route?_ , Spike wonders, just as he hears sirens. They must be close for the sound to get through the reinforced basement walls.

His eyes flicker up and away briefly and that’s when Mickey lunges. There’s a sharp gleam of metal, the clear shape of a gun swinging towards him and—

Spike fires—twice, center mass. Mickey falls backwards, crashing into a desk before crumpling to the floor and lying still.

There's a numb, suffocating sensation creeping under his skin, but his training kicks in. He approaches Mickey carefully, kicking the weapon out of reach before kneeling down to check for a pulse.

He drops his hand to the ground. “Subject down,” he murmurs.

That’s when the basement door crashes open, officers clad in protective suits and gas masks rushing down the steps. Relief washes over him. He points at the wooden door, and two break off to investigate. The rest clear the rest of the basement floor, leaving green footprints in their wake. Soon, other personnel are flooding the room.

When an officer kneels down in front of him, Spike blurts, “It’s Alpaxin. The green dust...”

“We know,” the covered figure says in a familiar voice. 

Spike touches his comm absently. _Of course they would_. Still...“There’s an antidote here,” he rambles on. “He said there was an antidote here.”

A gloved hand lands on his shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “We’ve got it, Spike,” that warm, gentle voice says again. “You need to get yourself to decontamination.” It’s the ease and familiarity in the tone that allows Spike to recognize Donna, a good Alpha and leader of Team Three, behind the mask. 

“My team?” he asks. 

“We’re getting them out now. They’re in good hands.” She sounds so sure and confident, it’s easy to believe her. Besides, he’s never known Donna to lie or exaggerate on important matters. 

“Can you walk?” she asks.

He nods, and she helps him stand. His legs feel unsteady. His hands, too. Donna seems to know he needs a moment because she doesn’t move from her spot. Her eyes flicker briefly to the body by his feet, but she doesn’t comment for which he’s grateful. 

After a few minutes, Donna turns to him, as if sensing he’d found his equilibrium, and says, “Ready?”

There are spots devoid of green on the floor where his teammates had been. Knowing they're all safe now, he nods and follows her up into the fresh air.

**Author's Note:**

> Since I've been failing so hard on my WIPs, I thought I should try something else. This was an idea I had when I first started thinking about writing an ABO story; hence, some familiar themes to 'A Consequence of Fate'. Because I'm trying not to over-edit, please let me know if you see any mistakes. Constructive crit welcomed. And if you enjoyed this story, I hope you’ll let me know that too.


End file.
